It had crossed Terry’s mind to wonder whether Brenda Foss’s Auntie Gwen had known at the time what neck of the woods she and Charlie had gone to. She’d never have grassed to the filth, though, whatever her opinion of Charlie which, as Terry recalled, wasn’t very high. It wouldn’t be, not the way he treated her niece. But she wasn’t all that bright, and when Terry had gone to see her after he came out of prison, she was happy to tell him what she knew because he was an old mate of Brenda’s husband. Not that it had amounted to much, when all was said and done. Still, she’d pointed him in the right direction and he’d been confident he’d pick up Charlie’s trail in the end. Which, at last, he had.
As luck would have it, Terry’s first job on the Monday morning after Lorraine Chant’s murder was on an industrial estate midway between Cheltenham and Gloucester, so he left home an hour early, brushing aside Rita’s anxious questions, and went to suss out his quarry. He didn’t know Cheltenham very well – it was a little off his patch, although he’d taken Rita and Billy there last Christmas to see the lights – but he’d checked the town map and eventually, after twice going astray round the one-way system, he found the address where Bodywise Systems had their head office. It was close to the town centre in a new building which had evidently only recently been completed, for a board outside proclaimed that there was still luxury office accommodation available in ‘this prestigious new development’. It was just gone seven and the traffic was still light. He parked the van a little way down the road and strolled back to investigate.
The façade of the building was finished in dazzling white and glistened like icing sugar in the early morning sun. There were rows of elegant sash windows and stone steps up to the front door, which was under a portico with fluted columns, flanked on either side by a bay tree standing upright in its white-painted tub like a dark green toffee-apple. The forecourt was laid out as a car park with spaces marked by parallel white lines and small noticeboards indicating which ones were allocated to individual tenants. Bodywise Systems had four and the registration number of the car Charlie Foss had been driving was painted on one of them. ‘Posh’ was the word that came to Terry’s mind. Charlie had gone all posh. He wouldn’t mind betting the creep had even put on a posh accent. Done all right for yourself haven’t you, you double-crossing shit, he thought. Well, I’ve got news for you: it won’t be long before you get your comeuppance.
So far, apart from a van bearing the name of a firm of contract cleaners, the forecourt was empty. Too early for office staff to show their faces, Terry thought. They’d come swanning in around nine o’clock when the likes of him had been grafting away for an hour or more. He wondered what time Charlie would show up. He couldn’t hang about here for long, not with a job of his own to go to. He couldn’t afford to be late as it was for a new customer and if the bloke was satisfied it might lead to other things. He was about to return to his van when a woman came out of the front door of the building with a duster and a tin of Brasso in her hand and began polishing one of the brass nameplates. Terry strolled over to speak to her.
‘Looking for Bodywise Systems,’ he said. ‘Any idea what time the boss gets in?’
She gave him a wary glance. ‘Who wants to know?’ she asked.
‘Supposed to be doing a job at one of his clubs.’ Terry had recognised the name when Reg called and remembered seeing advertisements in the local paper. ‘Lost the chit and can’t remember which one.’
The woman’s slightly contemptuous smile suggested that in her opinion losing an important bit of paper was just the sort of thing an incompetent male could be expected to do. ‘Well, I can’t help you,’ she said, rubbing vigorously at a plate engraved with the words Regency Investments Ltd. ‘You’ll have to wait till he comes in. Or maybe one of the others will know – but none of them gets in much before half-past eight,’ she added with a certain malicious relish.
Terry considered, wondering how to prise more information out of her. ‘I’ll have to do another job first and give the boss a ring later,’ he said after a moment. ‘Is he the bloke who drives the red Jag, by the way?’
‘That’s right. Mr Bayliss.’
He nodded, affecting recognition of the name. ‘Yeah, Mr Bayliss, that’s the gentleman I spoke to.’
‘You want to leave a message for him?’ The woman’s earlier hostility seemed to be thawing a little.
After a second’s hesitation, he said, ‘Yeah, why not? Say Terry Holland called round and will be in touch.’ He went back to the van, whistling. That should set old Charlie looking over his shoulder, he said to himself.
Hugo was in a good mood on Monday morning. He’d just laid his hands on a small fortune, enough to get him out of what could have turned into a tricky situation and leave him on easy street for the foreseeable future. All kinds of possibilities lay open, he could treat himself to almost anything he wanted. He’d change his car for the latest model, order some new suits and that set of fancy golf clubs he had his eye on. He could spend some of it on Sukey, take her to the best restaurants, fancy clubs, weekends in London hotels. That’d impress her. Judging by the battered old car she drove to the Bodywise Club she wasn’t exactly flush. Later on he’d maybe take Barbie on a cruise to the Bahamas. She’d enjoy that, she could have loads of new clothes for the trip and join in all the organised fun while he sized up the available talent. There were always plenty of spare women on these cruises, so he’d heard, simply asking for it. He’d have to be careful though, not start chucking too much cash around too soon. Folks might start asking questions. But he wasn’t likely to make that kind of mistake. He was too smart, wasn’t he? He sat down to breakfast with the Financial Times – he always read the FT because it fitted his image – happy in the knowledge that all was right in his particular world.
Barbie was reading one of the tabloids, rustling the pages as she turned them over. Normally he’d have shouted at her to keep quiet when he was trying to read, but in his present mood it didn’t bother him. Usually he didn’t encourage her to talk at the breakfast table either, but he didn’t even snap at her when she exclaimed, ‘Ooh! Char… I mean Hugo, there’s been a murder in a village just the other side of Gloucester. A big house burgled and the woman strangled!’ Encouraged by his silence, she read the story aloud, lingering with some relish over the more sensational details.
Hugo sat very still, making no comment, his brain racing. The story had been hyped up of course, to give readers the shudders and make them thank their lucky stars it had all happened to someone else. There were references to the house being ransacked and the desperate struggle for life the victim had put up but, to Hugo’s intense relief, no mention of any large amount of missing cash. That confirmed his suspicions; Arthur Chant had kept quiet about its loss rather than have to explain where it came from and why he hadn’t paid tax on it. By the same token, he’d probably said nothing about the jewellery either, as the chances were that some or all of it had been acquired with money that should have gone to the Treasury.
Hugo wondered how long it would be before the police paid Terry Holland a visit. With any luck, someone would have reported seeing the van and Arthur Chant would remember employing Terry to install the floor safe. Then the possibility that he’d had a spare key cut before doing the job would occur to one of the investigating officers. Once Terry was in the frame, enquiries would be made and his previous record would come to light. If not, there was always the anonymous tip-off to point them in the right direction. Hugo flattered himself that laying that false trail had been a stroke of genius, especially now it was a murder hunt. That hadn’t been part of the original plan and it meant he’d have to be more careful than ever to keep his own tracks well covered.
He finished his breakfast and got up from the table. Barbie was deep in the latest royal scandal and didn’t raise her eyes from her paper. Not that he noticed; he had other fish to fry. He really fancied Sukey and he was banking on her being at the club again this morning. Before leaving the ho
use he checked in the bathroom mirror to make sure he’d shaved properly and then gave himself an extra splash of Chanel.
He collected his exercise gear, went back to the breakfast room and gave Barbie her routine goodbye kiss, sliding a hand inside her robe and giving her breast a playful squeeze. To his annoyance, instead of putting her own hand over his in response, as was expected of her, she pushed him aside, stood up and began clearing the table.
‘What’s up with you, then?’ he demanded.
‘Nothing,’ she said, her voice flat, her face blank. ‘Have a good day – and don’t forget your check-up.’
‘Sod it!’ In the excitement of planning the robbery he’d totally overlooked his six-monthly appointment. He’d been feeling so fit lately he’d almost forgotten he was supposed to have a heart condition. Nothing to get alarmed about, the consultant had explained, just follow a few sensible rules… regular exercise… watch your diet… blah, blah, blah… and come and see me twice a year. And pay you a fat fee for the privilege of telling me that everything’s OK, Hugo thought irritably as he got into his car. The reminder had taken the shine off his feeling of self-satisfaction. He saw nothing illogical in blaming Barbie for his change of mood.
Sukey, pedalling away on one of the exercise bikes, had been keeping an eye open, half hoping, half fearing that the man who called himself Gary would show. She knew that what she was planning was risky. There was something about the man that she instinctively mistrusted. He was just too good-looking, too well-groomed, too smarmily charming to be genuine. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Gary wasn’t his real name, but uppermost in her mind at the moment was the fact that he had offered her the chance to do a job on the side and earn a bit of extra cash. She was confident she could look after herself; she hadn’t been to karate classes for nothing. Of course, on account of her job she shouldn’t even be considering it, but she kept seeing the expression on Fergus’s face when he told her to forget about the school trip because he couldn’t ask his father to help with the cost and he knew his mother couldn’t afford all of it. If he’d whined and whinged and said it wasn’t fair, she could have pointed out that it wasn’t a fair world and she had to do without things she wanted as well – but he hadn’t. It was his stoical acceptance of the situation that had wrung her heart.
Sukey concentrated on keeping a steady rhythm on the bike. It was early, and so far she was the only person there apart from Rick, the young instructor who was normally on duty on Monday mornings. He was making some adjustment to the treadmill and when he had finished he stopped for a word with her on his way back to the front desk. He was a nice boy, fresh out of college, with a clean, wholesome look that made him an ideal advertisement for a health club. Sometimes he had a remote, almost sad expression, but there was nothing sad about him this morning as he stood chatting while Sukey pedalled away.
They were interrupted by a man’s voice calling out, ‘Here you, get out my programme, will you?’ It was Gary. There had been an aggressive quality about that peremptory summons and it was plain from the way Rick’s smile faded and his jaw tightened that he resented the older man’s attitude, but he hesitated for only a fraction of a second before going to do as he was asked. Sukey felt considerable sympathy with the lad as she watched him brush past Gary without looking at him. As a former police recruit, she had had some experience of bullying superiors.
Hugo arrived at his office after his workout in a high good humour. Sukey, after an initial hesitation that he felt sure was put on for effect, had agreed to come out to his place on Wednesday morning to do a series of shots of his house and garden. In the car park, he’d scribbled his home address on the back of his business card, explaining that he used a ‘nomm dee ploom’ when visiting his clubs because he liked to keep an eye on things without his employees knowing who he really was. Sukey had seemed impressed and promised not to tell.
He had, of course, repeated his story that it was his wife who wanted the photos and let it be understood that she’d be there to supervise, but the reason he’d suggested Wednesday was that he knew Barbie was spending the day shopping in Oxford with a friend. He had boasted to Sukey about the pool – which was bigger than either of his neighbours’ and had a Jacuzzi – and the sauna he’d recently installed. He had plans to entice her into the sauna. He pictured her half-naked body close to his in the warm, steamy twilight – the prospect excited him so much that he had to stay in the car for several minutes after parking until things calmed down.
Thinking of the sauna reminded him of a less pleasant prospect: the appointment with his consultant. The pompous twit had frowned and shaken his head when he mentioned it and gone on at some length about excessive heat being risky. Such a load of rot. He swam and did his workouts without any ill-effects, and the occasional twinge of discomfort in his chest was probably nothing more than wind. But of course, a consultant couldn’t charge a fat fee every six months for telling a man he had indigestion. If it hadn’t been for the rules of his pension scheme he’d have cut out the regular check-ups altogether. He was still feeling disgruntled when he reached his desk.
His temper was not improved when his secretary mentioned that a certain Terry Holland had been looking for him. How the hell, he wondered, had the bugger tracked him down? It had given him a jolt to see the name on the side of the van parked outside the mean little house in the Gloucester side street. Terry and Rita had been in the front garden with the kid at the time, but they’d been looking the other way as he cruised past and he was certain they hadn’t spotted him. And when he thought about it, he realised that by carrying out the plan he’d already hit on, he’d be killing two birds with one stone. Instead of a complete stranger being stitched up for what he’d done, it meant that a man who was a potential threat to himself would be removed at the same time. All in all, things had worked out pretty well according to plan.
Until now. Now there was the problem of Terry being on Hugo’s track, and there could be only one reason for that: he wanted his share of the money. He couldn’t prove a thing, of course. He hadn’t been able to at the trial and he didn’t have a cat in hell’s chance of doing so now. Just the same, it would be as well to set things moving right away, instead of waiting to see if the police picked up the trail without his help. On the way home that evening, Hugo stopped at a phone box, called the local nick and left a message for the officer in charge of the investigation into the Lorraine Chant murder. When they asked for his name, he hung up. That’ll take young Terry’s mind off any ideas of outsmarting Charlie Foss, he thought. He almost chuckled as he got back into the Jag. He was feeling so pleased at his own cleverness that he never noticed the white van following discreetly a few vehicles behind him.
‘So what’s the verdict?’ asked Barbie as she handed him his gin and tonic.
‘The check-up, you mean?’
‘What else?’
He took a mouthful from his glass before replying. It was a warm, sunny evening and they were sitting beside the pool, he fully relaxed on a lounger, Barbie in an upright chair at his side, her own drink in her hand. She’d been to the hairdresser and had her face done, and she was wearing a figure-flattering new dress and the gold necklet he’d given her the other evening. Looking at her, he reflected that on the whole he hadn’t done too badly by marrying her. Some birds – Lorraine had been a classic example – were too smart for their own good, while others were so dim it was embarrassing. Barbie was somewhere in between, apart from a tiresome habit of now and again forgetting to call him Hugo instead of Charlie. So far, apart from that one lapse – and he’d given her something to remind her not to repeat it – she’d managed not to do it in company. She was still a reasonably good lay as well, he thought lazily, running his eye over the cleavage revealed by her low neckline, although naturally, after fifteen years of marriage, she lacked novelty.
He smacked his lips, picked up a handful of nuts from a dish on the cocktail trolley beside him and stuffed them into his mouth. �
��OK,’ he said, in response to her question. ‘Nothing to report, just the usual rabbit about avoiding stress and not overdoing it.’
He sipped his drink while contemplating his property, the fruit of six years of steady improvement in his fortunes. From the time when, recognising that his luck couldn’t hold forever, he had made the decision to pack in the precarious profession of bank robber and sink a sizeable slice of the money he’d stashed away in a firm of swimming pool installers on the point of bankruptcy, he’d never looked back.
The house wasn’t large – it only had four bedrooms – but it stood in a half-acre plot in one of the most exclusive parts of Cheltenham and he’d picked it up at a bargain price from the executors of the late owner, who were anxious for a quick sale. It had been neglected, but he’d soon had all that put right, calling in professional help with the garden and putting Barbie in charge of the decorations and furnishing. After days spent browsing through glossy magazines she’d gone for what she declared was ‘a real up-market look’. When he’d expressed misgivings at the result she’d pointed out that the jazzy carpets, curtains and wallpapers that he’d have gone for, the sort of stuff they’d had in their London flat that all their old friends used to admire, would look all wrong in what the estate agent’s blurb had described as ‘an elegant, architect-designed residence’. It had taken a bit of getting used to, but in the end he had to admit she was right.
Finally he’d had his own workforce in to install the pool and, just a couple of months ago, the sauna. Thinking of the sauna reminded him of Sukey and that made him feel randy again. He held out his empty glass for a refill and when Barbie brought it back he put his hand round her calf and slid it up her thigh. ‘Don’t worry, girl, the medics never told me to lay off the other,’ he said with a leer. ‘I’ll give you a good time later on.’
Death at Hazel House Page 6
